A Two Piece Puzzle
by beebopshaobadop
Summary: a few months after the pool, and John is struggling to come to terms with what happened. Eventually, he finds what he's looking for, but can he keep it?  rated T for angst, some sex referencing.  Spoiler warning: some spoilers for TGG
1. Silence, Blankets, and Bad Dreams

_Disclaimer: I own very little of this. Blame Moffat, not me. _

_A/N:_

_This is my first Sherlock fic. I have only known Sherlock existed for two weeks. I am not hugely familiar with the characters. Forgive me?_

"Stop it."

Silence was the only response.

"Please...stop it."

Still, there was nothing.

Two men sat alone in a dark, barely lit room. Silence descended upon them, laying thick and heavy in the air. Like a living being, it seemed to grow, twisting and convoluting until the very air seemed thick with it. Denser and denser it grew. When the taller of the two could bare it no longer, he opened his mouth to speak, and-

-A sharp rap at the door shattered the silence. Pulling himself to his feet, the tall, dark haired man shot an angry look at his companion. Smoothing the irritation from his pale face, he strode to the door, pulling it open swiftly. The short, ageing woman on the other side gave a small shriek, and promptly dropped the letters she was clutching.

"Oh, Sherlock, you did frighten me so! I do wish you would pick up the post every now and again you know, I'm not a housekeeper, and really dear, I-" Frowning ever so slightly, Sherlock picked the letters from her hand, and gently steered her away from the door. He then turned on his heel, all gentleness gone, and let the door slam closed behind him. The letters, he threw in disgust to one side. The other man, usually one to keep a tidy home, did not react. His face remained impassive and closed.

"I have had enough of this. I can see what's going on here, and I wont allow it. John. For Christ's sake, John, talk to me!"

John lifted his head, wearily. "What is there to talk about, Sherlock?" He whispered. Sherlock was shocked by the weakness of his voice.

"You. You're tired, you're unresponsive, you're awake all night, you've been crying, and your hands are shaking. Do you really think I haven't seen this kind of thing before, John? Its about time you snap out of it!"

John didn't react, but he felt a harsh stab of pain at each unflinching accusation. Living with Sherlock could be hell sometimes – secrets were a thing of the past. He didn't want to do this. He couldn't do this. Ignoring the taller man, he pulled himself to his feet. Legs shaking he began to walk. After three steps, he felt a sharp, crippling pain through his leg. _Ignore it,_ he told himself fiercely. Next leg forward. And again, the pain was more severe. With a gasp, he tumbled to the floor. Tears of shame and frustration welled up in his eyes, and he turned his head away. Sherlock wouldn't say anything – to him, crying was one of those habits others had; Sherlock did not judge them for it, but he deemed it pointless and would never understand it. With his face twisted in pain, John began to pull himself to his feet. Suddenly, a pair of strong, cold, hands appeared- one on each arm. With utmost care, Sherlock pulled John upright. His hands lingered on Johns arms, and John felt rather than saw sadness coming from the man. Suddenly furious, he pulled himself violently out of Sherlock's grasp. Ignoring the soft gasp he heard, he limped agonising away, to find somewhere just a bit more private.

John sat on his bed, eager to have the weight off his leg. As he leant back, he began to shiver uncontrollably. Closing his eyes, a series of image flashed through his mind, and he let out a soft moan. Guns. Bright lights and noises. Screams and tears and an agonising pain tearing through him, and a weight of despair. Water, shimmering, women, crying for their babies. A man's neck under his arms. A red light trained on his chest. Cold words that hurt when they shouldn't. Icy terror. Guns. Bright lights and explosions...

With a gasp, John drew air sharply back into his lungs. The room before him swam, although whether this was from lack of oxygen or the tears spilling hot onto his cold face, he could not say. His throat was tight, closed, and his heart was thumping. The tears began to flow in earnest now, and he could make out a continuous moaning, ragged sound. It was him, a part of his mind knew, that was making that sound. As it always was. He could feel his entire body trembling as he pulled his legs to his chest, trying to hold himself still, hold himself together. Slowly, the tightening in his throat and chest began to ease, and air flowed more freely into his lungs. This only served to make the sobs louder. He closed his eyes, seeing again and again those same images. A sharp red light, the soft shimmer of light on water, and a keen pair of eyes that shone with unbearable sadness.

When he opened his eyes again, the door was open.

Sherlock was stood there, his arms full with...blankets? For one absurd moment, John felt like laughing. He shook it off, and pulled himself upright. Making no effort to hide his face, he turned to Sherlock

"Don't you understand personal space? Or alone time?"

"I am aware of the concepts. I brought you...blankets" He trailed off, as though realizing he sounded foolish. "I also brought you company." John felt a twist of misery at the concern on Sherlock's face. He opened his mouth – to say what, he wasn't sure- and then closed it again. There was nothing worth saying. After a few moments, the familiar anger began to grow in Sherlock's eyes. It brought the usual freezing cold flood of emotion through John's body.

"I want to talk to you." Sherlock informed him, a determined glint in his eye.

"I don't want to hear it."

"I'm planning on telling you anyway." John turned to face Sherlock, and glared at him. He understood that Sherlock would be angry, that he would want to have his say, but he could not bring himself to hear it. The words, coming from this man, would cut too deep.

"I'm planning on not listening."

"That would defeat the point of me talking."

" Then wont you just shut UP?" John roared, trying his hardest to prevent Sherlock from continuing. A wild, fluttery panic was rising in his chest, and the shaking was increasing again. "I don't want to hear it, OK?" _Don't want to hear you blame me. _"I don't want to talk to you!"_Don't want to lie to you_. "I don't even want to look at you!" _Don't want to see the hate in your eyes..._

Sherlock was gone. A few hours ago, maybe. He had simply dropped the blankets on the floor, turned, and walked away. _I guess he didn't want to be near me any more,_ a small, bitter voice in his head whispered. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the voice. For a while, there had been pain, and fury, and sorrow. Now, the numbness was returning. The blissful lack of feeling. Closing his eyes, John fluttered on the edge of consciousness...

_Her face was so clear, so close to him. Wild eyes bore into his, hair matted with blood, and she pushed the lifeless bundle in her arms towards him. "Fix what you did!" she wailed, her voice guttural From her grasp, the lifeless child slipped, thudding to the floor. As he watched in horror, the boy – no more than 6- stood up. "Fix what you did, John" he moaned, his broken limbs dangling grotesquely as he tried to walk. Without warning, pain rippled through him, starting in his leg, as the dead eyes bore into his, full of hate. He was cold, icy cold, and felt the familiar weight of a body, holding him. A knife, against his throat. His own blood, surrounding him. The bombs strapped to his chest weighed him down, pulling him to the floor, but he stood straight and proud. The sound of water lapping gently behind him was horrifyingly peaceful and wrong. A man with no face stalked past him, somehow smiling. And ahead, Sherlock stood, beside the pool. The three men stood alone, at a standstill, and the sharp red light never wavered. Sherlock's eyes bore into Johns, like a shocking memory, and he whispered sadly "Fix what you did, John" in the voice of a long-since dead boy. Dead by his hands. The light on Sherlock's forehead vanished, and a gun was pointed, in the hands of the man he loved, straight to his face. The weights holding him vanished, and he began to float. Away from Sherlock, holding that gun. Away from himself. "Please, John Don't kill me." Sherlock begged, his voice was his own, now, and so sad. John glanced at his hands, seeing for the first time that he was the one with the gun/ Tears swam in his eyes as he pulled the trigger. The room shone with blinding light, and John soared._


	2. Mistakes, text messages, and going home

He paced, restless. He had felt boredom, confusion, frustration. He had felt impatience, anger, and even fear. Yet never, until this moment, had Sherlock felt the cold sting of betrayal. He was not sure how he was expected to react. What did people do, when they had been hurt so unfairly? Yes, John was suffering post-traumatic stress – Sherlock would have been shocked if he wasn't. He felt needlessly guilty. He was having nightmares. About the pool. About the war again. His behaviour was entirely justifiable... so why did Sherlock have this bitter pain in his chest? It was entirely new to him. Almost entirely. There was still a residue of that pain, months old now- of seeing Johns face, tight with fear- of that tiny red dot on his chest... the horror of sensations that rushed through him as he knew, he _saw_, the only way out- and feared what it would cost. The slightest nod – he knew, too, and he had accepted. That was the same pain, and yet different. Sharper. More intense. His face twisted at the memory, and he shrugged it off. This was different. And he could work it out! Restraining the urge to shout, he scratched at the patches on his arm. Keep calm. Calm. Calm and in control. It just didn't make any sense! He _knew_ John was suffering, but why wouldn't John just let him HELP? He turned, and, seeming the man before him, a calm settled into his skin. He placed what was needed into the hand stretched before him. Control. This, he could understand. This, he knew.

John woke, drenched in sweat. For a long while, he simply stared at the ceiling, through his tears. Eventually, the shakes ended, and his breathing relaxed. When he was sure he was under control, he pulled himself out of bed. Ignoring the beeping of his phone by his bed, ignoring the bleary eyes' reflection that judged him from beyond the mirror, he stumbled to his door. Today, he felt different. The dream had ended differently. Shaking his head, John drifted into the kitchen. Thought of coffee fluttered absently through his mind. More concrete were the thoughts of finding Sherlock. Of saying sorry. He flicked the switch for the kettle, and sat down. Glancing at the kitchen, he could see no signs that Sherlock was up. What sort of time did that man get out of bed? Frowning, he looked at the kitchen. It didn't seem right. When had he last truly looked at it? At any of it? The last few months seemed blurry, out of focus. Full of dreams, and that heavy weight of guilt. The therapist Sherlock had taken him to see told him to talk, he remembered. And since that day, Sherlock had been asking...begging... John to talk to him. Well, now maybe he should talk. Talk about what had happened. About all of it – the boy, dead by Johns own hands, and the agony of killing. Or, more recently, of what had happened. Talk of getting into a car, talk of dark alleyways and men. Talk of knives and guns and the certainty something terrible was happening. Talk of being told he was helping Sherlock, and of stepping -willingly- into the car. Talk of bombs, strapped to his chest, and a red light following him all the way there. Talk of knowing that _he_ would put and end to Sherlock's life. Talk of standing there, of seeing Sherlock's face. Talk of the disappointment and fear he had seen there. Talk of... he stopped the train of thought. The panic was swelling up again. He didn't want to remember. Any of it. The surge of relief, the cruel hope, the one blissful moment when he thought he had _everything_ he needed, and the way it had all ended. He couldn't talk to Sherlock about this, couldn't stand up and accept the blame he deserved. Where was that man, anyway?

"Sherlock?" he croaked. His voice sounded weak, uncertain. He tried again. "Sherlock!"

John was panicking He had searched the house, from top to bottom. Four times. Limp forgotten, he tore through the building in desperation. Where was Sherlock? He had began calm- then, finding a newspaper by the front door, had began to panic. It was the 23rd. It took John a few moments and some hurried mental maths to realise why this scared him so, why it sent ripples of uncertainty through him. It should be the 22nd. He had last seen Sherlock, looking hopeful and sad and angry all at once, with an armful of blankets, on the 21st. The flat looked as though no one had been in it for several days. John had slept through a whole day and a half, and in that time, Sherlock had not been here. Where was he? What was he doing?

Suddenly, he remembered his mobile. He dashed for the stairs and flung himself into his room, grabbing it from where it lay by his bed. 4 unread messages and 2 voice mails. Messages first.

00:24 Have to tell you something important. Been a bad day. Sorry. Home soon. SH.

18:50 Have you seen my brother? He wont answer his phone. MH

18:52 Don't tell M anything. Home soon. SH

23:08 So sorry. John. Call. Call now. SH.

John's panic, bad before, became full blown. The first message had been on the 21st, 4 or 5 hours after Sherlock must have left. The other three were from yesterday. With trembling hands, he dialled voice mail.

_John, call me. Call me now, I need you to... now. Call me John. Please? John!_ This was from just after the last text. The final message was garbled, incoherent. John was not aware of standing up, or of running to the door. He was only aware that when he called Sherlock, the phone did not ring. Cursing, he flung open the door and stepped out into the street. Where could Sherlock be? Damn that man! Didn't he know John couldn't survive without him?

Sherlock winced. His head hurt. It took him a few moments to realise what had happened. A bad batch. Nothing more. Standing up, stumbling slightly, he ran a mental check. Arm broken. That would need fixing. He better get back. Where was he, anyway? His head was fuzzy. It was cold, here. And wet. Too much was happening, he couldnt take everything in. Noise and sight and confusion. Hunching his shoulders, he shuffled towards the loudest noise he heard. Cars. People. Road signs. He had to go back home. Find John. Say sorry. For walking out. Leaving him. To deal with it all alone. Sometimes, it just too much. He had to get away. Glancing at his arm, he winced. Thankfully, the mass of bruising and swelling covered any incriminating marks. This was doing him more and more harm – once, it had made everything clear. Now, it left him helpless. He thought of John's face, took a deep breath, and began to walk. Setting his stride, he began to search for a way back to John.

"What do you mean? I don't care if this is what he does, we have to find him! Ever since... he wouldn't leave me alone." John stood straight, defiant, but Lestrade shook his head. John fell back into his chair. H_e's a grown man, John. He's always been like this, John. He'll come back, John._ The same bullshit for three days now. Sherlock had been gone- gone!- for four days, and no one else cared. When the detective inspector got up to leave, John did not bother seeing him out. He sat in his chair by the curtain, pulled his knees up to his chest, and waited.

John woke with a cold chest and a crick in his neck. He had heard the door. Leaping to his feet, he spun around and came face to face with-

"Sherlock_!"_ For a moment, he had nothing else to say. Relief flooded him, followed by anger, and then horror as John took in the state of Sherlock An arm that hung useless, obviously broken in several places. Haggard, tired eyes, and paler than usual skin. John did not need to look for marks to know what had caused this, where Sherlock had been the last 4 days.

"John." Sherlock replied, his voice as calm and nonchalant as ever. John took a deep, calming breath., as Sherlock continued. "You're looking better."

"You're...not."

"No. well, some things happened. Got out of hand, in fact. I lost track of time, but I'm back." It was only because he had spent four days dwelling on that face did John notice the flicker of emotions that crossed it. Nervousness. That was unexpected, and it threw him for a minute.

"Sherlock... what the hell happened? I've been looking! I've had Lestrade in here, trying to make him help! It's been... I've been – I was worried!"

"Well, John, I'm fine. No need to worry any more."

John's vision swam, and an echo of an echo played out in his mind/

"_Alright? Are you alright?" Sherlock face was panicked, his voice rushed. He pulled the jacket from John, fumbling in terror, and slid it across the floor, ignoring Johns instances of _

"_I'm fine. Sherlock. SHERLOCK!"_

John blinked, and Sherlock, as he stood now, swam into view. John suddenly launched himself forward, surprising himself, and flung his arms around the taller man's neck. To his intense horror, his eyes filled with tears. Sherlock simply stood, his arms rigid at his side, and waited. After a few moments, John pulled back. Embarrassment turned to anger – couldn't Sherlock show the slightest concern for him now, like he had then?

"Dammit, Sherlock! Where the HELL did you go?" he spat, furiously. "In fact, no. I don't want to know what seedy little dump you went to shoot up in. Keep your secrets that you love so much. I'm through with this!" his legs wobbled, but he stood firm

"Through with what, John?" Sherlock's obvious ignoring of the accusation was enough.

"You wont even deny it! What if one day you take too much? What would I do then, Mister Sherlock fucking Holmes?"

"Survive" Sherlock said, as though it was the single most obvious thing in the world. "You're being melodramatic, John, and it's unnecessary. Your concern is touching, but-"

"This? This is NOT concern, Sherlock. I am past concern! I tried concern, and it got me fucking nowhere! If I can't do anything to make this better, tell me why I should try any longer, Sherlock. Tell me."

"You shouldn't"

Sherlock was confused. He hadn't known he was having an argument. He had known _John_ was in an argument, but he had only said what he thought to be true. John couldn't make it better, and shouldn't be trying. Maybe he himself was the one who should be trying. But articulating this to an incoherent-with-rage John had proved impossible, and each thing Sherlock said seemed to make John more angry. In the end, he had walked away. Just to make the shouting stop. John wasn't allowed to shout at him, he needed to think. He needed to work out how to untangle this problem he and John had created – trickier by far than any murder case. He wanted to untangle it, he did. First John was withdrawn, shell-shocked, and now he was furious. Sherlock wanted his real John back. The proper John. It was seeming less and less likely each day. And that was another new type of pain, too.


	3. Fighting, Choices, and an experiment

Two men sat alone in dark, barely lit room. Silence had descended upon them, laying thick and heavy in the air. Like a living being, it seemes to grow, twisting and convoluting until the very air seemed thick with it. And then, it made itself at home. Set up a permanent residence. It had been seeping through the house, creeping around corners, and poisoning the air. It grew stronger and stronger with every minute it was ignored, until it seemed it would never end. One of the men – a short man, with a military hair cut, kept looking up at the other, as though weighing his options. He considered this for perhaps 30 minutes, and then he stood up and left the room.

John went into the kitchen, simply to move. To remember he was alive. In the other room, he could hear Sherlock relaxing, shifting slightly. The tension diffused, as it always did, when the two where apart. It was replaced by a cold and unforgiving loneliness. John had spent the past week in silence, thinking. Making choices he had hoped never to make. It hurt, at times, to consider this. He was losing Sherlock. There was no doubt of it, Sherlock was slipping away. And the further away he got, the more certain John became. He loved him. It made no sense to him, but that didn't seem to matter. He, John Watson, truly loved Sherlock Holmes It was completely ridiculously perfect. Or, it would have been. He had made two other decisions too. Ones that hurt even more. Ones that made him feel cold horror to his bones. Yet he was sure they were right. He heard Sherlock getting up – going out, perhaps. Steeling himself, he walked into the sitting room. Sherlock was standing by the fireplace, gazing at a small statue John had placed there.

"Sherlock. We need to talk." John said, forcing a small hole into the silence. Determinedly, he bored at it, making it bigger. "I need to talk to you. Please." He walked slowly, nervously, over to the fireplace. Sherlock turned to him, nodded.

"I'm listening, John" His voice sounded tender, concerned. John took a deep breath, and began.

"I'm sorry. OK? I'm sorry we nearly died. I'm sorry it was my fault. I'm sorry I let him trick me. I'm sorry for so many things But more than anything, I'm sorry if I hurt you – whatever I accused you of, whatever I put you through, I am sorry. And.." he hesitated – another painful decision he had reached - "If you want me to go – if you think I'm a liability, if you're annoyed, if you hate me -I will. I'll turn now and walk away. I promise" For a long moment, Sherlock was silent.

"Well." He said, finally. "This is an improvement."

"What?" John gaped. This man never failed to surprise him.

"Well, this means you're almost completely recovered from the PTS – although still feeling needlessly guilty. And you're talking. Of course, I wont ask you to leave. For one thing, you don't want to go. You hesitated. You frowned. You're still frowning. For another, someone needs to keep me in check, and you seem to be good at it." He cracked a grin, lifting half of his mouth, and lifting Johns spirits "And for another, you have more to say. Go on?"

"Oh. Well, that's helpful. So...erm...thing is, Sherlock... I.. you... I know you said, ages ago, but so much has changed now and..." He stopped, annoyed. This wasn't going right at all. "So I don't even know what I want, and I certainly don't expect anything at all, but-"

"I'm flattered" Sherlock interrupted, a serious and wryly amused expression on his pale face. John stopped, taking a deep breath. Damn man and his damn intuition, damn him!

"OK- Well, now you know, and that's.. well, that's it."

It didn't make sense. This was John, back as he should be. Making him smile, making him think, making him happy. But John loved him? It was almost beyond the bounds of credability. John had Sarah, and he had– well, what did he have? His job? His job had nearly killed him and John. Not so exciting, now. He had ignored case after case, telling himself they were not challenging. He wasn't afraid of his job. He wasn't afraid at all, he was...lost. And yet that feeling was fading, now. He shook his head ruefully, incredulous. Was he really considering this? He had kissed a few people before, certainly, but it had never been that much fun. He had certainly never _wanted_ to – not really wanting. He had just been...curious. Deciding that this was too good an opportunity to pass by, he spoke.

"John?" John, who had been turning away, looked up.

"Yes?" he said. It made Sherlock frown that there was no hope at all in Johns voice. Did he really think Sherlock would just let him walk away, after that endearing confession? Yes, Sherlock realised. That's exactly what he thought.

"You're turning away."

"I suppose I am."

"Well, you should turn back." With a posture that screamed reluctance, John turned. Feeling slightly bemused at his own actions, Sherlock placed his fingers gently under Johns chin, tilting his head back. He wasn't sure how to do this. He felt an unexpected surge of...tenderness. There was hope in Johns eyes now. Hope, and confusion.

"I turned back". John mumbled. What an unnecessary statement. Sherlock intended to tell John this, but suddenly, he was kissing John instead. Interesting, indeed. His heart definitely quickened, which he hadn't expected. It was quite invasive, really, but nice. Very nice, it felt very... comfortable. John was still frowning, but his eyes were closed now. Sherlock felt his own eyes slip closed too, as John reached up, on tiptoe, to make the kiss just a bit more intense. Really, it was very nice. In fact, Sherlock thought to himself, if he just– suddenly, John was gone. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open to see an irate John glaring at him.

"Would you stop being so damn analytical for once, Sherlock?" he demanded. Oh. Sherlock laughed, and then his arms were full of John and he stopped laughing. He stopped thinking.


	4. Chapter 4

Weeks passed. John couldn't comprehend how so much had changed so suddenly. Each morning, he wandered into the kitchen and was presented with a kiss and a coffee. Of course, Sherlock was the same as always – blunt, sulky, and completely incorrigible. Now, though, it didn't seem to matter so much. Maybe not even at all. The two of them would talk, think, argue, disagree, shout, and sulk. And then Sherlock would look uncomfortable and nervous, as though he wanted to try something but wasn't sure he was allowed. And he would shift, inch by inch, until the two men sat almost touching. A questioning hand placed on John's knee, whilst the owner of the hand maintained his usual cool demeanour. John would lean slightly to the side, and Sherlock would lift an arm around his shoulders. It always surprised John that Sherlock initiated these cuddle sessions (for that was what they were doing. He was cuddling Sherlock. Cuddling!) although he had his suspicions that Sherlock was analysing every move each of them made. For once, John didn't mind too much. He wouldn't be Sherlock with the over thinking, would he? These cuddles only ever took place of a late evening – a kiss in the morning, a cuddle in the evening. Other than that, their lives continued as always. Except for one thing.

Sherlock wasn't taking any cases.

This bothered John. Not least because Sherlock, when bored, was the biggest headache of a – companion. It and was a source of constant conflitcion in his mind. On one hand, Sherlock was clearly not going because of him. Because John was too much of a risk to have around, but could not be sent away. On the other hand, Moriarty was still out there somewhere, and he had promised to finish what he had started at the pool. John barely suppressed a shiver of fear at the thought. Sherlock, of course, noticed from across the room.

"Stop thinking about Moriarty" he said, not even bothering to look up from his book. "I'm better than him. He wont catch me again."

"Unless he catches me again" John muttered quietly.

"Yes, that is a possibility. Don't get caught. Stick close to me"

John grinned at the thought."That, I can do"

"I had noticed, in fact. You're like a second shadow lately. Where's your phone?" John frowned. Not at the insult -after all, it was nothing personal.

"Why do you want my phone, Sherlock?" he asked, suspicious.

"To send a text, of course. Your limp is looking better."

"What? Oh, yeah. Fine. Never better. What text?" John handed over his phone with some trepidation.

"Feel up to a walk? Maybe a bit of a run?" John knew what was coming, with a cold certainty. Really, it was inevitable..

"Sherlock, I-"

"Here. Take your phone and have a look at this drawing too, please. I can't sit around here forever. I'll get bored!"

"But Moriarty is out there! Sherlock, he'll kill you!" The familiar panic built up in John's chest as he realised Sherlock had finally taken another case. It was always going to happen - a man with Sherlock;s energy and enthusiasm could never just sit around at home.

"I'm smarter than him. I told you, he wont catch me again." Sherlock finally straightened up, and turned to look down at John. The fear in John's eyes must have been obvious, because Sherlock smiled a little and placed a comforting hand on his face. This was a new type of intimacy, rare for them, and it calmed John for a moment. Then, his thoughts caught up, and he stepped back.

"Well I'm not smarter than him!" Sherlock didn't respond. John winced – the insult, though unintentional, stung.

"No." Sherlock murmured, after a moment. "You aren't. But you're better than him. Just stay with me and you'll be fine, John."

"I will not put you at risk again!" Heat flooded his face, full of shame, as he remembered the panic in Sherlock's eyes that fateful day. Panic and betrayal "I don't want you to do this, Sherlock. Please...please? Don't put yourself at risk – don't let _me_ be a risk to you..."

"For goodness sake, John. This is ridiculous!"

"I know that, Sherlock. But I love you, and if I hurt you again-" He stopped, shocked at what he had said. He'd never said those words to anyone before.

"John." Sherlock's voice was gentler now. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"But I didn't do anything right either" John replied, so soft he might not have spoken at all. Sherlock heard, though.

"You offered yourself. To save me. And John-" John was not expecting Sherlock to hesitate. "I love you too. I thought you should... know that. I never said a proper thank you." Ignoring the excited race of his heart, John continued with what he wanted to say.

"You could say one now. By not doing this. Find another way to stop being bored, Sherlock. Please. If you wont do it for you, do it for me. Do it because I love you, because I need you. Please" John could almost see Sherlock working through those words, digging out the emotional blackmail John had shamelessly flung at him. His eyes widened just a bit – presumably in anger. John steadied himself for an emotional blow, and-

"What sort of ridiculous reason is that?" Without another glance at him, Sherlock turned back to the stack of books in front of him.

For a moment, John simply stared at Sherlock. Then the pain of those words hit him. Chest tight, he turned away from the other man. His breathing was laboured, but he held a straight posture as he walked out of the door.

It was raining, ever so slightly, when John walked down Baker Street. His mind was still, his thoughts silent, and his head hung. He did not dwell on what Sherlock had said. He did not dwell on the racing of his heart or the misery in his breast. He did not dwell on the water seeping through his shoes as he traipsed through a puddle. He did not dwell on anything at all. He simply walked.

Sherlock watched John leave in the mirror. He felt an unexpected stab of guilt. Yes, John had been trying to blackmail him, and yes, it was annoying. But that was no reason to deliberately break Johns heart. That's how John's face had looked. Hurt, and heartbroken. He had done that. Deliberately. This was the issue, he thought to himself, with sentiment. Feeligns only lead to more feelings, good ones to bad ones. With a frown, he picked up his phone.

17:31 sorry. Didn't mean it. Call or come home. Need to talk. SH.

Even as he pressed send, Sherlock remembered seeing John drop his phone on the way out. It wasn't like him to forget. With a muttered curse, he strode to the door,raced down the stairs, and burst into the street.

"John!" He called, hoping to catch the man now and avoid a public spectacle. "John!" he reached the street in time to see John arrive at the bottom of the road. He hesitated, to let a car pass presumably. Then, to Sherlock's horror, the car stopped. Sherlock knew what was going to happen, and he ran faster, trying to be there in time. The door swung open. _Run faster!_ A hand reached out to grab John's arm. _Faster, Sherlock! _ "JOHN!" Sherlock yelled again. John glanced up. The hand tightened its grip, and pulled viciously at John. _Nearly...there..._ John began to struggle, and then suddenly, blood blossomed red in the air. John let out a single shriek, and was still. His body vanished into the car, leaving Sherlock with a fleeting glimpse of pain and need on that face, and then John was gone.

Sherlock stopped. Think, think, he turned left. Left, what's left? nothing that was for ages. Who? Moriarty, or someone working for him, would be behind this. Sherlock had suspected he was being watched. Probably Moriarty, considering his warning. For a moment, Sherlocks blood seemed to run cold, as he remembered...

"_I will burn the heart out of you!"_

He had to think, had to work this out. The mud on the tires – closing his eyes, he could see it. A peculiar yellow colour. Rather rare. He only knew of two or three places that it could be found nearby.

"_I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."_

What else was there? The car reg wasn't informative, not unless he could get Mycroft to track them. He sent the text without really thinking about, his mind still whirring over the car. The hand was gloved. Black leather, cracked. Worn in places, well used. No stains, but signs of regular cleaning – so it was regularly dirtied. With what, he did not dare to think.

"_We both know that's not quite true"_

John. They were going to hurt John. He had to THINK. Where would they go? They wont go straight there. It must be close, they got here in 5 minutes from when he decided to take the case. He didn't really believe this was about his crime solving – but the case was the only obvious trigger. Power. Moriarty wanted Sherlock to know that he was watching him. So, it must have been since the announcement of the case. 5 minutes drive, straight here. How badly did they hurt him? Blood. Blood on the floor. Not a lot. In a wide range – a spraying, then, not a gushing. Not a major vein or artery. Shoulder, perhaps? Leg is more likely, considering the way John dropped. Leg. Thigh, then. Or knee. Calf would be too low. A knife in the thigh, or the back of the knee, to stop him running away. Not fatal, unless... there was a major vein close to the surface of the thigh. John would need medical attention that they cant give him in a car. He'd have to be held still. Unless they meant to kill him. They wouldn't kill him, they needed to use him,. He'd be no good to them dead. He'd need seeing to in 20 minutes. 5 minutes to get here, 20 to get back. A roundabout route, to make it hard to guess. Random turns on the roads. Avoiding any busy lanes or red lights. Don't want to get slowed down. Somewhere quiet, with not too many people. People question it when thugs drag a bleeding man through the streets. Moriarty must have a safe hold somewhere_. _

Sherlock turned, and ran back to the flat. Oh, if only he could drive. He leapt through the door, reaching for his phone, John's phone, and his gun, and then ran for the door again, his heart thudding in his chest. Gotta stay calm, hen reminded himself. He could do with a cigarette just now. Keep his cool. He just had to find them, and then he could save John. Say sorry to John. Maybe even kiss John again. This was what love felt like, then? This burning need to protect.? This overwhelming terror of loss? And the warm memory of comfort, seeming so distant now.


	5. Chapter 5

John had not screamed once since they cut the back of his knee. He was used to the pain, after all. He did regret that he might actually need to use the cane now though. A thought drifted passed him, whispering that maybe he wouldn't. Reminding him of a painful choice. He ignored it. He had tried to speak to the men in the car with him, but to no avail. Blindfolded, and lying on the floor as he was, it was hard to memorise the turns, yet he tried. Left. Left. U turn. After a while, right. Left. Left again. Right. And so on. He wished he had not left things with Sherlock the way they were. This one thought began to taunt him, cruel and persistent, until he could bare no more. A moan of horror slipped from his throat, and he began to cry. Eventually, blissfully, he lost consciousness

Sherlock's phone rang. He did not even glance at the number, he simply answered.

"Moriarty?" He growled into the mouthpiece.

"Well done!" came the familiar, eerily high-pitched drawl. "Who else did you expect?"

"Where is he?"

"Well, Sherlock, that would be telling, wouldn't it? That wouldn't be any fun at all – I want to play, Sherlock."

"This isn't a game!"

"Oh, but it is. The most dangerous game of your life. 24 hours. Find him. Come to me. Tick, tock, time's a-wasting. Hurry."

"Give me... anything! To go off!"

"A clue, Sherlock? Really. I'm disappointed. "

The line went dead.

Sherlock dropped the phone, his jaw hanging open slightly and his mind working furiously. He wasn't allowed a clue, he had to work with what he had. What did he have? A back story of murders and crimes, a puzzle he had already solved. That wasn't enough. Sherlock began to pace. He needed to focus! It had never been more important. Why, then, could he not get John's guilt-filled expression out of his mind? It was all he could see, all he could think about. There was a rushing noise in his ears. He felt dizzy, out of focus. His legs crumpled beneath him as Sherlock blacked out.

He woke up slowly. Inch by inch, John pulled his way toward consciousness. When he finally arrived, he was greeted by agonising pain in the back of one knee and across his wrists. _Ah. Bugger, _he thought, still slightly groggy. A sickly smell assaulted him. His knee appeared to have been treated- and very well. He'd never walk properly now, of course, but the pain when he stretched it was dull and blunt, not like before. He ran his fingers along it, and felt a row of neat, even stitches. They obviously wanted him alive if they took that much care over him. Alive for now, at least. And he had a pretty strong idea why.

He was bait.

It was hideously simple. John, kidnapped and vulnerable. Sherlock would come running. Although their...whatever it was... was a secret, it was obvious Sherlock cared deeply for John. Through the haze of memory a few words floated to the surface.

"_I will burn the heart out of you!"_

"_I have been reliably informed I don't have one"_

"_But we both know that's not quite true."_

Well, it wasn't true any-more. Sherlock had a heart, and with it came a weakness. John. Suddenly, that smell truely hit home, and John let out a gasp of shock.

"_I will burn the heart out of you."_ Cautiously, he lifted an arm to his face, and sniffed. He coughed, hacking, and recoiled. Petrol. He was covered head to toe in petrol.

"_I will burn the heart out of you."_

John began to tear at his clothes, before realising there was no point. The whole room was soaked in the stuff.

Sherlock. John had to get in touch with Sherlock, stop him from coming. Warn him. Send him away. He would not be the cause of any more pain or threat to Sherlock. Never again, he swore to himself. Never.

Sherlock woke up very quickly. It was a sudden, cruel awakening, his mind instantly flooding with all that had happened. For a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to curl up into a ball, to feel the crushing fear. The fear that this time, he wasn't going to be good enough. He wasn't going to save John. After just a moment, he pulled himself upright. This was ridiculous! How was this going to help him save John? He had to calm down. Grabbing his coat, he ran to the door, and jogged to the bottom of the street. Left. He turned left, jogging to the next junction. He had so little to go off. Where next? Where would Moriarty take John? Why had he let Moriarty take John? Why hadn't he been stronger? Faster? Smarter? Better? He had caved in to his ridiculous emotions and had lain, _useless,_ on the floor in a heap! He had to find John! He discounted the pool. Moriarty wouldn't revisit the scene of a failure, he had too much pride. So where? With that yellowish mud, it could be one of three locations. One of them was too densely populated. That left two. One was on the other side of the river, and so far away. The other, closer, was an abandoned warehouse. That was his first point of call. As he began to run, his phone beeped.

20:50 run home, Sherlock. You wouldn't want to miss my little surprise. M x

There was a web address at the end, and a password. Turning on his heel, Sherlock ran as fast as he could.

The website loaded almost instantly. Sherlock didn't remember ever being so...confused. He always had an answer. But in this case... he jumped slightly, although refused to show it, when Jim appeared on the screen.

"Moriarty." he spoke, his voice cold and dangerous.

"Sherlock, I believe you have misplaced something...important"

"What do you want, Jim?"

"Want? Oh, several things. I want to show you I'm smarter than you. I want to show you that you where wrong, Sherlock Holmes. Wrong about everything. I want to keep my promise I made- what I will do to you if you ever get in my way. Although, really, you aren't in my way. You're just so delightfully entertaining, Sherlock. I want to toy with you for a while. And then, I want to bring you to me. I want to teach you a lesson."

"What's all this, then? This video set up? I thought I had 24 hours."

"Oh, you'll get your time. I just though you could use a little...reminder".

The screen went black. Sherlock's heart was thumping painfully, but he kept his face impassive. He thought he could make out voices, but he couldn't be certain. Then he heard Moriarty's sing-song voice

"Be good, boys!" and the screen flickered back to life. Sherlock's heart froze in his chest.


	6. Chapter 6

**trigger warning: suicide.**

"Oh Joo-oohn" a sing-song voice called, from the top of the steps. "Ugh. This stuff does smell, doesn't it?" John sat up, slowly. His joints ached. Everything ached. His heart ached most of all.

"I have a present for you, John. You might remember it. After all, I do like to finish what I started. And I hear you have quite a thing for explosions." Cold dread flooded John at the sight of that vest, explosives strapped to every inch of it. He was not aware he had moved until his back touched the wall. He began to whimper. "Of course, it's not the exact same one. Anyway, put it on" Suddenly, Moriarty was there,wrestling his arms into the jacket. John could not resist. He seemed to have lost any control over his limbs. "No easy escape for you, John. Not this time. Even if you can get out of the jacket – well, the fire should do the job.

"So- you're... killing me... anyway? I th-th-thought … bait..." Johns terrified mind struggled to follow the madman's plan.

"Quite right, John. Of course you're bait. You'll love this, look" he pulled John to his feet and steered him to face the wall. On it a screen had been placed, roughly one meter square. Below the screen was a small webcam. "I have an earpiece, mind, so don't be saying anything you'll regret. Be good, boys!" Moriarty practically skipped from the room. Johns head was spinning. Boys? Who else was-?

The screen flickered to life. On it, larger than life, Sherlock's face appeared. John gave a small cry of anguish, and dropped to his knees. This was beautiful. This was terrible. Sherlock!

"John? John, is that you? Where are you, John, tell me- no! Please, no..." Sherlock's face fell into a look of terror as he realised what John was wearing.

"Sherlock" John whispered, crawling forward. Seeing his loves face gave him courage enough to stop trembling. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry!"

"Shh, John. Later. I'll get you out, I promise. I'm thinking, John. Just give me a minute."

A voice came through that was not Sherlocks.

"20 hours, boys. I'm countiiiiing.". From the frantic look on Sherlock's face, he had heard it too.

"Trust me, John?"

"I do." John closed his eyes, ignore the painful beat of his heart in his chest. His mind flitted back to the three choices he had made, all that time ago. Tell Sherlock he loved him. Offer to leave, if Sherlock needed him gone. He had done both of those- and for such a brief while, life was sweet and beautiful again. Now, though, his third choice haunted him. If it ever came to a point where he was putting Sherlock in danger again... this time, it was more than simply an offer to leave. This time, he could only see one way out. It still scared him to think that, with all the horrors he had seen -and caused- in his life, he had never reached this point. And yet here he was, because of love. Could it be that love, then, was stronger than fear, terror, and pain? Stronger, maybe, but love was also a thousand times more brutal. Eyes still closed, he whispered "I trust you, Sherlock" Sherlock must have recognised something in Johns voice, because his own voice grew sharp.

"John! Don't you give up on me!"

"I was always your only weakness, Sherlock" he opened his eyes, met Sherlock's icy blue ones. He had planned for something like this – whenever he went out alone, he went out prepared. He remembered being searched, but either they had not been thorough, or he had been very lucky. He had sewn a small, short gun into the hem of his coat. It only had one bullet – but then, he only needed one.

"John!" as John methodically pulled the gun out, never once breaking eye contact, Sherlock expression grew horrified. John knew that if he let Sherlock keep talking, Moriarty would grow suspicious.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry that I got you into this. LISTEN to me, I need to say this to you." Thankfully, for once in his life, Sherlock shut up when John asked. His furious expression said he was not going to stay quiet long though. John took the opportunity whilst he had it. "I know you have a lot to say, Sherlock, but here are no words that can fix this for us, so please don't try to find them." Maybe slightly cryptic, but if Sherlock couldn't decipher a simple 'You can't change my mind', no one could. "And there doesn't look to be any way out. Even if I could get past Moriarty, I'd never make it out of the building. Everything's soaked in petrol – all it needs is a spark, Sherlock. So I wont try." For a moment, both men were silent. Sherlock was obviously thinking fast – thinking of the words to keep John from doing this. Tears filled John's eyes, but his voice remained steady. "I'm sorry for so many things, Sherlock." He had to act soon, before Sherlock worked out where he was being kept and tried to dash in to rescue him. "But more than anything, I'm sorry for this. For doing this-" he nodded to the gun "-to you. For putting you at risk time and time again. Can you forgive me, Sherlock. Please?" Here, John hesitated. He was going to do this, regardless, but to do it and never be forgiven was too difficult to contemplate. Thankfully, Sherlock nodded, soundlessly. Then, looking as though he had made an important decision, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"John – I love you"

"Well, well" Moriarty drawled. "That IS a turn up – I knew you had a heart, Sherlock Holmes. Time's ticking"

"I'm aware" Sherlock choked out, and his eyes began to fill with tears. John wondered if he had ever seen Sherlock cry. He couldn't remember. It didn't matter.

"I love you too. And I'm so scared, Sherlock." He confessed. He reached out a hand and placed it on the screen, across Sherlock's face. His movement jostled the semtex jacket, a cruel reminder of his fate. Sherlock seemed beyond words, and his face was trembling. To his surprise, Johns hands were not. He was perfectly still. He closed his eyes, just for a second, trying to calm himself, find the resolve he needed. Lyrics to a song floated to the front of his mind. Without stopping to wonder why, he began to sing.

"_It started out as a feeling, which then grew into a hope_

_which then turned into a quiet thought, which then turned into a quiet word"_

John opened his eyes. He had to see Sherlock's face. He could hear Moriarty's voice, saying something. A question, he thought. It didn't matter. To his surprise, Sherlock was singing too. Sherlock never sang. John didn't even know Sherlock listened to music.

"_And then that word grew louder and louder, till it was a battle cry_

_I'll come back, when you call me... No need to say goodbye."_

The two men's voiced, filled with love and anguish and tears, rose dramatically together. Sherlock managed a tiny smile.

"You sing when you make coffee" he whispered. "I listen to every word" John smiled in return.

"_Just because everything's changing..." _

He continued. He stopped thinking. Stopped trying to understand. He simply sat on the floor, heart torn in two, and gazed into Sherlock's eyes. Miles away, in the room with him, his lover met his gaze with an intensity neither of them had ever known.

"_Now we're back to the beginning, it's just a feeling, and no-one knows yet" _

_But just because they can't feel it too, doesn't mean that you have to forget_

_let your memories grow stronger and stronger, until they're before your eyes._

_You'll come back, when it's over. No need to say goodbye..."_

John held the gun, twisted awkwardly, with the barrel pointed at his chest, pressed against the explosives. His voice broke, but he kept singing. And meant every word.

As the two men stopped singing, the door burst open. Moriarty stood there, screaming in fury. Sherlock let out a yell, the microphone distorting his voice. "No, John. Don't give up!" And John, in the split seconds silence, met Sherlock's beautiful eyes for one last time, and whispered

"Live for me".

He pulled the trigger.

I look at the screen in disbelief. A crackled roar, a flash of light. Now all I can see is fire. Really, it was the logical thing for you to do – take out Moriarty for certain, keep me safe, finally forgive yourself. But it was wrong. The screen is breaking up, pixelating. I see smoke, and an orange glow. The smoke is clearing. I see, briefly, two bodies on the floor. One, burned and bleeding. Clearly dead. The other is you. The explosion took you before the fire could, but the flames are claiming you now. I make out your face. You're smiling.

You left me.


End file.
